Page 19 of Betrayed Auctioned Mate

God knows what he was thinking. God knows why he thought this was a good idea.

Night will fall soon. The buzzing of insects fills the silence between our breaths, and the water laps gently against the reeds. I should be watching the river, but I can’t take my eyes off Keira. She must know I’m staring, but she says nothing and doesn’t look up. Her knuckles are white where she grips the handle of her pistol, and I see the pent-up energy coiling in her shoulders, a spring, ready to snap loose at any second.

“They’re coming,” Bigby murmurs, his eyes narrowing as he peers through the darkness toward the inlet. His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it. The kind that comes with years of experience. He knows just how quickly things can go south.

We turn toward the water, squinting through the shadows.

The sound of an engine reaches us first—low and rumbling, growing louder with each passing second. Thespeedboat slices through the swamp’s stillness, its silver trail through the water shimmering faintly under the moonlight.

“Positions,” Byron hisses, his voice clipped with focus.

We spread out, melting into the undergrowth. Bigby takes point, his rifle trained on the boat as it approaches. Byron slides closer to the slipway, ready to signal with the flashlight. I take a position a little farther back, keeping an eye on Keira, who moves mechanically to her assigned spot, her movements stiff with anxiety.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here. My wolf howls to claw free—I want to take her far away from this place. We should never have let her come.

The boat draws nearer, and I catch sight of the men on board. Three of them, hunched over in the cockpit, their faces shadowed. Collaborators, Byron called them. Not masterminds.

Byron raises the flashlight, and in the gloom, he taps out a series of flashes in quick succession. Morse code—an old signal we intercepted from their communications. It’s bait, meant to lure them to the far side of the inlet, away from the hidden dock where we’re waiting to ambush them.

They’re hardly bleeding hearts. But they’ll come, and we know it. Curiosity gets the better of even the most seasoned crooks.

The boat slows, the men aboard clearly taking in the signal. The engine judders into a low hum as they change course, veering toward the opposite bank. We wait, breath held, until they’re in position, sitting in the still water ten feet out from the shore, the side of the boat seeming to shine among the high reeds.

“Now,” Byron whispers, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the reeds.

Bigby moves first, slipping into the water like a shadow, his rifle still trained on the targets. Keira follows, hesitating for just a second before she takes the plunge. The cold swamp water swells up to her knees. I move last, keeping an eye on the boat as we silently close the distance.

But just as we reach the drop-off on the edge of the shallows, something goes wrong.

One of the men on the boat catches sight of us through the forest of reeds—a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, or maybe just a feeling. He shouts out, and everything erupts into chaos.

Gunfire cracks through the night. The first shot comes from the boat, a bright burst that whizzes past my ear and slams into the mud behind me. I see it before I hear it. I feel it before I see it.

Bigby returns fire, his rifle barking out kill-shots, which all miss in the chaos, and Byron ducks behind cover, shouting orders.

“Take them down! Move, move!”

Our targets attempt to turn their boat around in the water, but it stalls. The engine glugs fuel into the water below. One of Bigby’s shots burst it open.

Keira is frozen for half a second, her eyes wide as the gunfire explodes around us. I reach out, grabbing her arm, pulling her down into the reeds as another shot whistles an inch over her head. Her breath comes in ragged gasps.

“I’m fine,” she’s heaving, “I’m fine, I’m fine.” To herself more than to me.

I release her and swing my pistol up, aiming for the boat. My first shot clips the side of the hull, sending splinters of sun-bleached varnished wood flying through the air. The men aboard scatter, one pinwheeling back into the water with a huge splash as Bigby’s bullet finds its mark.

Keira finally moves, her training kicking in. She raises her pistol, and, with a steady hand, fires at one of the men as he tries to return fire. Her second shot is clean, hitting him square in the shoulder. He crumples to the deck with a cry.

But it’s not over yet. The remaining man ducks behind the console, fumbling for something—a weapon, a radio, something that could turn the tide.

Byron shouts from the bank, “Take him out before he calls for backup!”

Keira doesn’t hesitate this time. She pushes forward, cutting through the water, her eyes locked on the man. She keeps her center of gravity low, her pistol in perfect military position. She’s finally in her element.

I follow her, keeping close, covering her as we advance on the boat. The pounding of my heart matches the rhythm of our footsteps. It’s been years since I felt this kind of adrenaline on a job for the pack. It’s her fault. It’s all her fault.

The man behind the console jerks up, trying to raise his weapon. Keira reacts instantly, her pistol snapping into place, and she fires—but the shot goes wide, blowing open the face of the console inches from his head. It’s close enough to make him flinch, his grip faltering, and in that split second, I take the shot.

My bullet hits him in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. He lets out a harsh cry, dropping his gun as he clutches the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. For a heartbeat, he stumbles, dazed and weakened by the impact.

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